


To His Banqueting Table

by Fyre



Series: Hunger [5]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Blindfolds, Bondage, Dom/sub, Love, Sense Play, Sensuality, Service, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-28 04:47:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20058253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: He glares as best he can, but it fades into a smile when Crowley reaches down and slips his fingers between Aziraphale’s, ducking his chin in that soft, shy way that is only ever for Aziraphale. He squeezes Crowley’s hand in return, resisting with every ounce of his will the urge to lift Crowley’s fingers to his lips.For a moment, even the wedding fades around them, drowned out in the wellspring of love from Crowley. It has always been there, a whisper on his senses from that first day, but oh, it took so long for him to realise exactly what it was and what it meant.





	To His Banqueting Table

**Author's Note:**

> I thought I was done with the Hunger series. Evidently, I am not. Mostly because of [this gorgeous piece of art](https://cogitaeworks.tumblr.com/post/186623888175/sunset-by-the-cottage-in-south-downs-done-while).
> 
> Also, I honestly don't know if this classes as explicit. They make it so hard to tell.

Despite his many centuries on earth, Aziraphale has never really attended many weddings. A handful, yes, but it always felt rather rude to appear at the wedding of a stranger, basking in the glow of love around them, unless he was there to perform a blessing. It was rarer than one might think.

It means that the invitation to Newton and Anathema’s wedding is all the more precious for it.

The date alone gave him pause. Two years to the day, but only ten people in attendance would ever understand the relevance, and even then, perhaps only two of them would remember all the details.

So they decide to go, together.

Crowley looks rather marvellous. For a little variety, he has chosen a blood-red dress, shot through with threads of black and gold that almost make it look like scales. Perfectly modest and appropriate from the front, the back dips to the base of his spine and is enough to make Aziraphale a little weak at the knees. That a single perfect ringlet of copper hair coils down from his elegant hairstyle to sway between his bare shoulders only makes matters worse.

Aziraphale is so distracted that he almost walks into a lamppost, which makes Crowley throw back his head with a triumphant laugh.

“You,” Aziraphale grumbles happily, “are a wicked creature.”

“Course I am, angel,” Crowley says, eyes shining behind delicate, gold-framed sunglasses. He threads his arm through Aziraphale’s. “Come on. We’ll be late.”

There is no ‘be’ about it. Crowley – for once – kept to the speed limit and they hurry down and claim the final couple of chairs in the back row, unnoticed by everyone but the bride and groom and the very American man who is performing the ceremony.

The two young humans have – much to Aziraphale’s relief – chosen to marry in the lovely rolling orchards a short distance from Jasmine Cottage. No churches or religious overtones anywhere to be seen, only a couple in love who don’t want or need the eyes of God or prophesying witches on them at all.

He’s basking – of course he is! Who wouldn’t? – as the vows are exchanged and starts when Crowley nudges him in the ribs.

“What?” he mouths.

The demon grins at him and nods towards a tree only a dozen paces from them. It is ripe and heavy with beautiful red apples and he feels his cheeks redden. They both remember the garden, of course, but Crowley has provided more stimulating and interesting memories regarding the flavour of apple on his tongue.

He glares as best he can, but it fades into a smile when Crowley reaches down and slips his fingers between Aziraphale’s, ducking his chin in that soft, shy way that is only ever for Aziraphale. He squeezes Crowley’s hand in return, resisting with every ounce of his will the urge to lift Crowley’s fingers to his lips.

For a moment, even the wedding fades around them, drowned out in the wellspring of love from Crowley. It has always been there, a whisper on his senses from that first day, but oh, it took so long for him to realise exactly what it was and what it meant.

Crowley leans close and whispers, “You’re glowing, angel.”

Aziraphale’s eyes flick to his lips then back to meet Crowley’s gaze. “Hm?”

Crowley leans ever closer, his cheek skimming Aziraphale’s. “You’re glowing. Literally. I think you’re scaring the humans.”

Aziraphale recoils back, blinking, and yes, he is. “Oh good Lord,” he mumbles, hastily toning it down. “Sorry.” He waves a hand to Anathema, who looks as if she’s fighting back a laugh. “Sorry!”

She approaches him afterwards, ring on her finger and husband on her arm. “I’m glad you both came,” she says. “We wanted to have everyone here who was there, then.”

Well, Aziraphale thinks, recalling the other faces who had attended the airfield two years earlier, not quite everyone. That would have been a very different kind of celebration.

“F’you don’t mind me asking…” Newt adds, looking between Aziraphale and Crowley, and Aziraphale can imagine the question that may be coming, especially given they have only ever seen Crowley in his habitual black trousers.

“Crowley likes to dress up now and then,” he says quickly, slipping his arm protectively around Crowley’s waist and realising his mistake almost instantly, as his hand skims low across bare skin and Crowley shivers bodily. And yet, he can’t seem to lift his palm away.

Newt frowns. “No, I was going to ask… the glowy thing you were doing?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale laughs, but he can’t help but move his hand slowly, his thumb tracing circles on Crowley’s spine. “Oh, that. Just… an angel thing, I suppose. It’s silly really. I don’t even know why I do it. It just happens from time to–”

“He was happy,” Crowley’s voice mercifully cuts off his babbling response. How can he be expected to form words when all he can think of is the smooth skin under his hand? For Heaven’s sake, it’s difficult enough to think. “Does it when he’s happy.”

Anathema and Newt exchange a look that on any other day would have quite nicely melted Aziraphale where he stood, and yet all he can think is that he would rather that they would go away, so he can slip his hand a little lower.

He’s brought back to himself by a sharp nudge from Crowley.

“Didn’t you want to give them something?” he says, his voice only a little strained. “Blessing or something?”

He does… something. He’s not even sure what it is – he later finds out that, precisely nine months afterwards, a baby is born with the middle initial A – but he does something and then makes himself let go of Crowley, because if he doesn’t, he never will and that could be very awkward for all concerned.

“You all right?” Crowley murmurs with far too much knowing mirth in his voice.

Aziraphale makes a face at him. “You’re very distracting.”

The demon laughs, looping his arm through Aziraphale’s. “And you’re insatiable.” He leans close and presses a warm kiss to Aziraphale’s cheek. “If you behave yourself,” he murmurs, nose brushing the lobe of Aziraphale’s ear. “I’ll make sure you get something special when we get home.”

“Special?” Aziraphale echoes. Crowley is _very_ good at indulging him with silk and music and the lightest of touches. A warm tongue teasingly traces his ear, dipping wickedly, and making Aziraphale press his eyes closed and catch his breath.

“Oh yes,” Crowley purrs. “Something you’ve never had before.”

Aziraphale’s heart does a peculiar little flip and he looks at his lover, who gazed back, serene promise in his eyes, wickedness clinging to his lips. The angel swallows hard, knowing he is too curious to resist. “That sounds… intriguing.”

Crowley laughs softly. “Oh angel,” he says and kisses him softly on the lips. “You have _no_ idea.”

And before Aziraphale can think or speak, Crowley sashays off, hips swinging in a manner that would have got him arrested in the 1920s. Aziraphale curls and uncurls his fingers and breathes deeply. Always a temptation, yet if he obeys and behaves himself as Crowley put it, then the indulgence will be so much the sweeter.

So, he behaves himself. He mingles with the Americans. He eats the slightly dried-out vol au vents Newt’s mother made. He circulates and very particularly does not keep his eye on Crowley, who is moving through the crowd like a snake in long grass.

Little by little, it gets easier to act as one should at a wedding, which is precisely when he finds Crowley by his side again.

“You spoken to him yet?”

Aziraphale doesn’t need to ask to whom he refers. “I suppose we should.” He offers his arm solicitously and he isn’t surprised by the tremor in Crowley’s hand when he takes it.

It’s not difficult to find Adam Young. He’s the only person at the wedding with an excitedly yapping former Hellhound. He’s also still surrounded by his friends, though they are taller now, teenagers with all the horror that it entails.

“I thought you’d be coming,” Adam says by way of hello. He holds out a plate with a mountain of cakes. “Want one?”

Aziraphale glances at Crowley, who chuckles. “You can never resist, can you?”

For a child who might have destroyed the world, Adam has grown up nicely, Aziraphale thinks as he indulges in a pink-iced fancy.

“You’re the man who took the sword,” the girl – Pepper? – says. “I wanted to keep it.”

“Probably better you didn’t,” Crowley says. “I wouldn’t have touched it.”

The girl stares at him, then her eyes light up.

Apparently, Crowley is – in young people parlance – NB and the girl excitedly insists on complimenting his dress and admiring his hair, even though she makes sure to add that he doesn’t need to bow to patriarchal preconceptions of femininity if he doesn’t want to!

Adam meanwhile studies Aziraphale with a knowing look that is far too old for a pimply thirteen year old.

“You’re happy,” he says.

Aziraphale feels the colour in his cheeks, which is ridiculous, when it’s nothing more than the truth. “Well, yes. A bit.” He finds his eyes drawn back to Crowley, who had been talked into taking selfies with Pepper and laughing. “A lot.”

Adam grins. “Are you gonna get married too?” Aziraphale almost drops his fancy in astonishment and Adam nods, as if he has given an answer.

The question is still rattling around in his head much later in the evening, when they return to the car and Crowley incinerates the parking ticket.

“You seem distracted, angel,” he says, leaning on the roof of the car. “You all right?”

Aziraphale looks across at him, his hair like fire by the light of the setting sun, pale skin softly glowing, and all at once, the question – and the answer – are clear. Unnecessary, it’s true, but so clear. He's Crowley’s, heart and soul and all else in between.

“Just thinking, dearest,” he says and takes a moment to admire the warm glow that tinges Crowley’s cheeks. “Shall we go home?”

The blush is replaced by that serpent smile. “Oh, yes. You _did_ behave very well, after all.”

It’s astonishing, Aziraphale thinks, his breath hitching, how Crowley can make him feel like he is in freefall, even when he’s standing with both feet on the ground. He wets his lower lip. “I did?”

“Mm.” Crowley’s eyebrows rise suggestively. “Everso well.” He steps back, pulling the car door open. “I’m _very_ pleased with you, angel.”

The pleasure skitters down Aziraphale’s spine and he hastily gets into the passenger seat, trying his utmost to ignore the bubble of anticipation that is leaving him light-headed. He looks across at Crowley, which might have been quite fine on any other occasion, but the dress seems to have a slit that he never noticed before. All the way to the hip in fact. And he cannot help but stare as muscle flows beneath silk-smooth skin and Crowley floors the accelerator.

“Your dress,” he manages, when he finally prises his fingers from the roof and the edge of the seat. “Did it always…?”

Crowley’s smile is a slash of scarlet, knowing and wicked. “I told you I’d do something special,” he says, lifting his knee and letting the split widen, baring his leg from toe to hip, and Lord, Aziraphale has never wanted to lay hands on something with quite so much urgency.

“That–” Aziraphale tries to gather his words and his thoughts, but they have scattered. They’re on a road. Crowley needs to pay attention. Crowley is _driving_. And yet, Aziraphale’s hands are twitching and Lord, Crowley knows how to tempt him in the worst possible ways. “Damn it, Crowley!”

Crowley laughs in delight and he flashes a smile at Aziraphale. “Let’s see if you can hold on until we get home,” he says, eyes dancing.

Aziraphale all but gnaws through his lower lip. “All the way?”

As if to make matters worse, a lock of Crowley’s elegant updo uncurls, tumbling over his shoulder in the most provocative manner. For Heaven’s sake, the only thing he was missing was letting his strap slide from his shoulder.

“All the way, angel,” he purrs.

Aziraphale hears a feeble whimper and is shocked to realise it was his own.

Fine.

_Fine_.

All the way home.

He’s an angel who managed to restrain himself for millennia. He can manage a simple car drive.

Or he could, if Crowley wasn’t being an absolute nightmare, rubbing one foot – clad in that devilishly spiky stiletto – against his bare calf. It seems there is a slit in the other side of his dress as well, for the skirt has slipped down between his thighs, leaving very little hidden at all.

He presses his lips together and clasps his hands around the seat and very, very pointedly stares out of the window.

“Look at you,” Crowley sighs happily. “You’re so good, angel. God, you’re good.”

It oughtn’t make matters worse, and yet, every word tempts him more. He’s breathing harder and the leather of the seat is giving beneath his fingers. “You enjoy tormenting me,” he complains hoarsely, though without malice.

“Tormenting?” Crowley laughs. “Nah. You love it. You love knowing what you’ll get if you behave yourself.” His lips are suddenly close to Aziraphale’s ear, his breath warm and honeyed. “You know you _want_ what I can give you.”

Aziraphale shudders, stifling a whine. “The road!” he implores. “Please, Crowley!”

A soft kiss brushes his earlobe. “I know, angel.”

When Aziraphale risks a glance at him, Crowley is looking ahead, a small smile playing around his lips, and for once, it doesn’t feel as if the car is going to go spinning out of control. Not that it would. It’s a very sensible car. But all the same, it doesn’t feel quite so dangerous as usual.

It also means he is no longer so distracted by the feeling of impending discorporation that he can’t take his time admiring the way Crowley’s legs move as he touches the pedals with his feet. He so rarely wears anything but his trousers that even seeing a glimpse of his legs is a tantalising luxury.

“Enjoying the show?” the demon murmurs.

Aziraphale nods, unable to lie. “It’s a very becoming dress,” he murmurs. He hesitates, glancing at the open road ahead of them. “Would it be very presumptuous for me to touch you?”

Crowley’s scarlet lips curl up. “I thought we agreed all the way?”

Aziraphale breathes out a shaky sigh. “Yes. Yes, I suppose we did.”

Crowley looks over at him, then smiles more softly and uncurls his hand from the wheel, holding it out. “For now,” he warns, “this is all you’re getting.”

It’s certainly more than enough and Aziraphale catches his fingers, lifting them to his own lips. He kisses each fingertip – chastely, but still enough to make Crowley nip at his red lips and tighten his other hand on the wheel – then weaves his fingers between Crowley’s. Palm to palm, he remembers from that first heady evening, not so long ago.

Once, they would have sat apart, not touching, but by the time they are in sight of home, Crowley’s thumb has been brushing along Aziraphale’s, tracing the ball of his palm, caressing the side of his fingers, and Aziraphale has resorted to staring at the lights flitting by them along the roadside as he holds himself in check.

“Here we are,” Crowley says, utterly unnecessarily as he draws the car to a halt.

Aziraphale has been counting down the miles, the yards, the inches until they are safely within their boundaries and their walls and home. “Yes,” he manages, his voice barely more than a growl.

Crowley’s fingers tighten around his. “Do you trust me, angel?” he asks, so soft and serious that it pushes through the haze clouding Aziraphale’s mind. He remembers that question from before, when Crowley first asked, when he was thinking of silk and blindfolds and a throne.

For him to ask again, to be sure…

“You know I do,” Aziraphale breathes. “Always.”

Crowley’s face lights up like a sunrise and he leans across the car to kiss Aziraphale. “Come on, then,” he says, eyes shining behind his glasses.

Aziraphale almost stumbles in his haste to get out of the car, but Crowley doesn’t laugh or tease him. Instead, he offers his hand as Aziraphale rounds the front of the car. Their fingers slip together so nicely and Aziraphale catches him, pulling him back to kiss him. His free hand wraps around Crowley’s waist, spreading on his bare back, sliding as low as he dares until he touches silk-covered skin.

Crowley smiles against his lips. “You’ve been dying to do that all day, haven’t you?”

Aziraphale can only nod, pulling Crowley flush against him, kissing him again, nuzzling lips and cheeks and jaw and throat. Crowley curls his fingers in Aziraphale’s hair, stroking with a laugh, then gently tugs.

“You’ll spoil your surprise,” he murmurs close to Aziraphale’s ear. “You don’t want that.” He nips, then teasingly curls his tongue into Aziraphale’s ear, making him shiver. “Do you?” His breath is cool on Aziraphale’s still-damp skin, and Lord, it’s both better and worse all at once. And damn him, Crowley knows it too. He draws back, smiling. “Well?”

Aziraphale purses his lips, trying his best to look indignant. It’s not difficult when he has been all but sitting on his hands for the past eight hours. “It had better be a _very_ good surprise.”

“Would I disappoint you?”

Never intentionally, not once. Aziraphale can’t help the smile that comes to his lips. “Oh, very well. Surprise me.”

A snap of Crowley’s fingers opens the door and the demon glances back with a smile that makes Aziraphale’s toes curl, full of promise and mischief. Crowley leads, and without hesitation, he follows, though the house is still dark.

He hears the clatter of Crowley’s glasses on the table beside the front door, where they always remain. They have no place anywhere else in the house, certainly not in the bedroom where he is delighted to realise Crowley is leading him.

By the pale moonlight cutting through the windows, Crowley is an enigmatic silhouette, his dress glittering, his back and arms bare and glowing. With his free hand, he reaches up and plucks out a pin from his hair, letting another curl fall in a perfect coil, swaying hypnotically against the curve where his shoulder meets his neck.

He knows what he’s doing. He _must _know, not least because Aziraphale is squeezing his hand tighter with every moment.

The bedroom door stands ajar and to Aziraphale’s surprise, there is light inside, flickering and dancing.

“How–?” he begins.

Crowley spins about to face him, golden eyes dancing. “Forward planning,” he says and leans in for a quick kiss that pulls away far too quickly for Aziraphale’s tastes. “I knew you’d want to see what I was up to.”

He kicks back, the door swinging open.

The bedroom is lit softly by candles, flickering on a dozen surfaces. Crowley smiles at him, pulling him forward into the room. “Thought I’d go a bit romantic for once.”

Aziraphale feels a well of soft warmth that begins somewhere about the middle of his chest, expanding so quickly he knows it will smother him, and oh, he is happy to be smothered. “It’s lovely,” he says, clasping Crowley’s hand to his breast.

Crowley ducks his head, the tips of his ears almost as red as his lips. “Don’t get used to it,” he warns, then draws his hand free. He only hesitates for a moment, as if considering how to proceed, then spreads his palms on Aziraphale’s chest, smoothing the lapels of his coat. “Now,” he says, the faintest breath of a tremor in his voice. “I need you on your best behaviour, do you understand?”

Aziraphale nods, though he covers Crowley’s hand with his. “I do have one condition,” he says cautiously, loath to ruin the mood.

“Yeah?”

“No tickling?” He watches his lover’s face, watches for a flicker of disappointment, of plans thwarted. “I only– it’s nice enough, but I’d rather not tonight. If you don’t mind.”

The disappointment never comes. Instead there’s such a look of fond devotion that he has to take a short, sharp breath.

“Anything you want, angel,” Crowley promises, then draws his hands up Aziraphale’s lapels. “First things first…” He gently pushes the coat from Aziraphale’s shoulders, circling around behind him to lift it away. He even drifts away to hang it up, a little kindness Aziraphale loves as much as his playful wickedness. When he returns, there’s a curl to his lips and a gleam to his eye and with one deft tug, he loosens Aziraphale’s tie.

“I could have–”

“And where’s the fun in that?” Crowley scoffs fondly. He doesn’t even remove it, though a twist of his fingers undoes the top two buttons of Aziraphale’s shirt, loosening it, spreading the collar wide. Then he strikes, serpent-fast, his mouth latching onto freshly-bared skin.

Aziraphale gasps and grasps at him, pulling him closer, but Crowley doesn’t let go, not until Aziraphale can feel the throb in his body pulsing directly to Crowley’s lips. Oh, the mark will be _beautiful_ in the morning and dark enough to last for days.

And–

And–

He shivers as another bite, another mark, another, is applied, a chain of them from the base of his throat to that point just beneath his ear. His fingers are digging into Crowley’s back and he’s panting low and soft towards the ceiling and slowly, slowly, recognises the soft, lazy flicker of a serpent’s tongue at that hollow at the corner of his jaw.

“Good?” Crowley murmurs, smile in his voice.

“Yes,” Aziraphale whispers, splaying his hand on Crowley’s back, the skin so cool and smooth beneath his palm that it is a struggle not to let himself get lost in it.

Teeth nip at his earlobe. “Good,” Crowley breathes, soft and warm.

Between them, his hands move again, one button undone, then another, waistcoat falling open, his fingers tugging Aziraphale’s shirt loose and plucking each and every button open until it falls wide. He steps back from the circle of Aziraphale’s arms, capturing one of Aziraphale’s hands as he goes, and without taking his eyes from Aziraphale’s, removes the cufflink, then does the same on the other wrist.

He’s taking his time, Aziraphale thinks, his heart pounding unbearably, watching him, his hands quivering by his sides. Oh, he knows how to tempt and tease. He always has, but now, when they’re alone, he is so masterful and it becomes more and more difficult and delightful to obey every time.

Crowley smiles as if he can read Crowley’s mind, toying with the golden cufflinks. “Do you want to take your shirt off, angel?”

Aziraphale hesitates. “Do I need it?”

The smile turns wicked and delicious. “Oh, definitely not.” He nods towards the vanity. “Put it on the chair.”

It takes an astonishing amount of concentration for so simple an act, especially with the sensation of Crowley’s heated gaze searing him as he walks the three paces to the chair. He fumbles with his waistcoat and then his shirt, not even folding it, as he drops it on the back of the chair. If only for a moment of steadiness, he grasps the back of the chair and looks back at Crowley.

“Anything else?”

Crowley slinks towards him, his skirt swinging delightfully between his long, pale legs. “Here,” he murmurs, setting aside the cufflinks and catching the bottom of Aziraphale’s vest. He’s so close, Aziraphale could count every eyelash. “I don’t even know why you insist on wearing these things in the middle of summer.”

Aziraphale sniffs. “They’re comfortable.”

A copper eyebrow arches. “Uh-huh. I know something better.” And with that, his hands slip beneath the vest, pushing it up, and together, they peel it off, ruffling Aziraphale’s hair as it goes. Crowley is all but pressed against him, his tongue pressing to his teeth. “There,” he says. “Isn’t that better?”

Not quite as much as it could be, Aziraphale thinks, improving matters immeasurably by catching Crowley by the hips. “I’m feeling a trifle underdressed, my dear.”

Crowley’s eyebrows arch provocatively. “Did I say I was finished,” he asks, sliding his hands up over Aziraphale’s bare chest, then slowly down to mirror Aziraphale’s. A prickle of power trails them, making Aziraphale catch his breath. Crowley leans in closer, nose-to-nose. “I told you, angel,” he says in a voice cool as ice. “_Best_ behaviour.” And he flings his arms wide, breaking Aziraphale’s grip.

Oh, that– that is new. All of it. The power. The stern tone. The coolness in his voice. The curl of his lips that says he’s enjoying it. And oh, he looks magnificent.

“O-oh,” Aziraphale manages, his hands fluttering up by his chest. “Sorry.”

Crowley clicks his tongue. “Oh, I don’t think you are,” he purrs, pressing the tips of his fingers against Aziraphale’s chest. “Not even a little.” It takes the barest of pressure and Aziraphale sways back, taking one step, then another, guided by the lightest of touches of Crowley’s hand, until the back of his knees knock against the end of the bed. “I think I’m going to have to _make_ you be a good angel.”

Aziraphale’s heart is a deafening roar in his ears. His mouth is so dry he can barely moisten his lips to speak. “Y-yes.”

Cool fingers tipped with blood-red nails catch his chin. “Better,” Crowley says softly. “Now, close your eyes.”

The sweep of silk over his eyelids is so familiar now and he shivers pleasantly. “Thank you.”

Crowley’s lips ghost over his. “Don’t thank me yet.”

That’s when his arm is drawn up parallel with the floor and he feels the brush of heavy twisted silk against his hand, the thickness of the cords that tie back the curtains around the bed. But he cannot feel the post and the cords surely aren’t long enough to be of much use.

Crowley wraps his fingers around the cord. “You might want to hold on, angel.” He almost sounds calm, but for the tremor that Aziraphale can recognise in every tiny hitch of his breath. Crowley’s fingers trail their way along his arm, caressing over his shoulder, brushing his collarbones, making him shiver anew. “Other arm up too.”

At once, Aziraphale understands, raising his right arm level with his shoulders too, stretching him cruciform between the bedposts. A second cord is pressed into his grip and Crowley closes both of his hands around Aziraphale’s fingers.

“You can let go any time you want,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing gently up and down over Aziraphale’s knuckles. “Do you understand?”

But–

But that would not be behaving, Aziraphale knows. That would be misbehaving, to do something without permission, without obedience. Trusting him to do as he’s told and knowing he _will_ do it, no matter how much Crowley tempts and teases, because pleasing him is far more satisfying.

It’s a strange and glorious thing, to obey and see the joy it brings.

Deliberately, he twists his hands tighter into the cords.

“Yes,” he whispers and hears the soft, shivering breath Crowley tries to mask.

Crowley’s hand slips away from his and at once, the room descends into silence, broken only by his own uneven breathing and the quiet snap and whisper of the candles. He traces the twists of the cords with his thumbs, trying to concentrate on that alone, trying to ignore the urgent need to call out Crowley’s name.

An immeasurable time later that the bed creaks behind him and broad, cool hands spread on his sides, making him flinch, startled.

“I was thinking,” Crowley says softly, close to his ear.

“Hm?”

Lips brush the corner of his jaw and he shivers at the pleasant flickering touch of a forked tongue darting against his ear. “Mm.” Those cool hands slide inexorably downwards and Aziraphale finds he has forgotten how to breathe as the buttons of his trousers are undone one by one. A kiss to his shoulder feels like a smile. “You’re so tense, angel.”

Well, yes. Yes, of course! A night of firsts, this. Yes, they sleep together all the time, but as he has never seen Crowley’s legs in all their glory before, he’s fairly sure Crowley has only seen glimpses of his. He knows too well how he might react to a touch to inner line of his thigh, the back of his knee, the arch of his foot. After all, a hint of a touch on his ankle was enough to melt him like butter.

“I-I’m fine.”

Crowley’s chuckle is soft on his skin. “Mm?” His lips draw back from his teeth and he bites the meat of Aziraphale’s shoulder. Not hard, but hard enough to make Aziraphale squirm and desperately tighten his grip on the cords. Lord have mercy, he’s beginning to wonder if he might make it through the night at all.

The last of his buttons come undone and a casual push of Crowley’s hands drops the trousers to the floor. Aziraphale tries not to, but he cannot help the small sound of dismay that escapes them.

“I suppose,” Crowley observes, sounding all too pleased with himself, “I should get them, shouldn’t I? Or you’ll fuss and fret all night long.”

“I know,” Aziraphale manages to say. “I’m ridiculous.”

At once, Crowley is wound around him, one arm curling around his chest, his hand catching Aziraphale’s chin, the other arm around his waist, his cheek rubbing up the side of Aziraphale’s neck. “You’re _not_ ridiculous,” he growls so furiously and possessively that Aziraphale’s knees quite turn to water. “You’re you and you. are. perfect.”

Aziraphale cranes his head desperately, seeking Crowley’s face. “Crowley–”

The hand on his chin turns gentle and a bruising kiss is pressed to his lips. “They lied to you, angel,” Crowley breathes between heated, crushing kisses. He somehow plasters himself closer against Aziraphale’s back, his arms constricting, holding him tight, protecting him. “You’re good and clever and nothing like they said you were.”

Aziraphale’s world narrows to the warm lips against his, the soft breaths they are exchanging, and the feeling of being held and utterly, completely secure. Crowley’s thumb brushes his cheek, the corner of his mouth, soft as down.

They hang there for a perfect moment, wound together, breathing as one.

And yet… he cannot help but be himself.

“M-my trousers,” he finally breaks the stillness and Crowley, blessed Crowley, laughs and kisses him softly.

“I know, angel,” he says, his voice a little rougher. Another kiss to Aziraphale’s shoulder, then the arms around him slither away and for a heartbeat or two, he aches for their absence.

It only lasts, of course, until he hears the rustle of Crowley’s skirt and he jolts when hair as soft as silk brushes against his knee. Crowley doesn’t even seem to notice, pushing Aziraphale’s trousers up over his shoes and tugging at his laces.

“You know,” he says conversationally, “I could just miracle them off instead of trying to undo these bloody Gordian knots you’ve tied.”

“Don’t!” Aziraphale yelps. Miracling is all well and good, but sometimes, it can muck things up and he really is rather fond of those shoes.

He hears the demon chuckle. “Fine. Just the knots, then.” Crowley snaps his fingers and at once, the shoes feel looser. Crowley taps the toes of his right shoe. “Right up, angel.”

Obediently, Aziraphale lifts one foot, biting his lip as Crowley gently eases his shoe off and drags the trousers clear. By the time the other shoe and the trousers are gone, he has never felt more vulnerable, the wooden floor cool beneath his sock-clad feet.

Everything around him seems so sharp and vivid, the scent of the wax, the nearby heat of the candles, and he can hear the soft brush of fabric being folded and the whispers of Crowley’s skirt. His hands tremble on the cords.

“All right, angel?” Crowley asks far more softly than Aziraphale expected.

He nods without thinking, then again, more surely, because vulnerable, he may be, but he has never been safer or more cherished in his life. “Yes,” he says, just in case, because Crowley might worry. He even manages to smile, though his lips are shivering. “Oh, yes.”

Crowley’s skirt whispers closer. He must have taken his heels off, Aziraphale thinks giddily, for it to sweep along the floor. And then it rustles some more and two cool hands curve up the back of his calves.

“Fuck!”

At his feet, Crowley laughs in delight. “There it is!” he crows, as if his hands aren’t trembling as much as Aziraphale’s heart.

“You wretch!” Aziraphale groans, his toes curling. It only gets worse when Crowley leans closer and brushes a snake-swift kiss against his knee. It seems Crowley knows him better than he knows himself, because he had lingered, Aziraphale may have accidentally kneed him on the nose. “Oh! Sorry!”

Crowley’s laughter is even warmer than the candles. “Don’t worry. No damage done.” He pats Aziraphale’s knee playfully. “I’ll keep my guard up.”

Aziraphale’s heart lightens and he laughs too. Only Crowley could know him so well and know how to reassure him so easily. His laugh catches in a gasp when Crowley’s fingers move and he feels and hears the snap of his garter coming undone. “Um…”

“It’s all right,” Crowley soothes, stroking his thumb across the shallow indentation left by the clip. The sensation is… oh, it’s quite lovely, the flesh a little tender from so many hours of constant, light pressure. “There… better, eh?”

“Mm.” Aziraphale clutches more desperately at the cords, his arms quivering. It feels as if they might be the only things holding him up.

The other clip follows, then Crowley slowly, everso, unbearably slowly, draws Aziraphale’s sock down, fingertips caressing untouched skin and raising a rash of goosebumps across every inch of Aziraphale’s body. Crowley curves his hand, lifting Aziraphale’s foot – oh Lord – his lap. He has Aziraphale’s foot in his lap as he peels the sock from his skin. It’s not tickling, not the way he reverently runs his fingers under Aziraphale’s heel, shaping his instep, brushing his toes.

“Oh!”

“You have no idea how much I want to tickle you right now,” Crowley says wistfully, lifting Aziraphale’s foot from his lap. “God, it’s tempting.”

“I– it–” Aziraphale sways unsteadily, palms aching pleasantly.

“I won’t,” Crowley murmurs and suddenly, his breath is warm on Aziraphale’s foot and his hair brushes in a cascade and Aziraphale can’t breathe at all. Lips on his ankle, a tender, burning glorious bite that makes him cry out, and then his foot it back on the floor and he’s left, flushed, swaying.

He can scarcely hear anything over his own breathing, his head spinning. He has no thoughts left to resist Crowley’s attentiveness when he removes the other sock. Both garters follow and when Crowley tenderly massages the ridges cut into his skin, his arms ache with the effort of holding himself steady.

“All right?” Crowley prompts softly. “Or too fast?”

Lord no. Lovely. Wonderful. Much more. Better.

“Good,” he gasps out.

There a silence, a pause of the night holding its breath.

“Aziraphale.”

It’s like the gentlest of touches, his name used so tenderly. He lifts his chin from his chest, turning his face in what he hopes is Crowley’s direction. “Mm?”

“Can I see you? All of you?”

It takes a moment for him to understand. “All…” He echoes, thinking that there is nothing left to uncover, nothing of interest or of use or– but that isn’t true. Crowley has only ever seen him as the body he has inhabited all these many years. He nods, wetting his lips. “Can… can you finish? With my clothes?”

That, he realises, catches his lover off guard. “There?” Crowley says, wary doubt in his voice. “Are– you’re not messing with me, are you? It wouldn’t surprise me.”

Aziraphale makes as much of a face as he can manage. “You want all,” he says.

Crowley snorts. “Course you’d have it around the unmentionable area,” he grumbles fondly. His hands settle on Aziraphale’s hips. “Oh for Satan’s sake, angel! Buttons! Again?”

Aziraphale laughs giddily. “Always fussing…” And yelps, recoiling, when Crowley blows a raspberry on the softness of his belly. “Crowley!”

“Wasn’t tickling!” Crowley declares, tugging at the tiny row of buttons down the front of Aziraphale’s drawers. “Can’t say it was tickling. Didn’t use my fingers or anything.”

Aziraphale huffs noisily. “Arsehole.”

Crowley goes very still and Aziraphale can picture the pleased-shocked look on his face. “Angel! I am _appalled_!”

“Oh…” Aziraphale wishes he could wave a dismissive hand, but that would mean letting go of the cords. “Just…” He nods emphatically downwards. “Get on!”

With one quick yank, Aziraphale’s drawers drop to the floor. He doesn’t even bother to step out of them, leaving them where they fell. Better not to move. His legs are only supporting him by force of will. Only then does he hesitate.

“You’re sure?”

Hands alight at his waist, holding him, steadying him. “You’ve seen me. S’only fair.”

Aziraphale chews his lip. “It may hurt you.”

“No,” Crowley says with soft certainty. “You won’t.”

Aziraphale nods, breathes deeply. It’s very difficult to take on an aspect he has hardly used in so long, but he reaches inwards and flicks two fingers downwards. The power washes through him. His wings flare and he can feel the radiance flushing through him and the ripple of his angelic flesh taking hold.

And from his feet, there’s a low, breathless sound of wonder.

“Enough?” he asks, trembling with effort.

“One sec.”

Lips skim suddenly across his belly making him gasp and jolt against the cords, hot, loving kisses tracing the constellation of gold scales that curves over his belly, his right hip and down to his thigh. He feels the moment Crowley _sees_ and turns his face away.

“Angel…” Crowley murmurs, his hand haltingly touching Aziraphale’s thigh. “What’s this?”

“Oh.” Old wounds don’t hurt when you’re in a body, you see. Hardly important. One might even forget about them. “Nothing.”

Crowley all but glides up his body, cradling his face. “Enough,” he whispers, knocking his brow against Aziraphale’s.

Aziraphale sags with relief, swaying into him, unsurprised when Crowley wraps his arm around his waist to steady him. His wings, though, remain.

Crowley holds him close, gently stroking his back. “You shine, y’know.”

“Mm.” Aziraphale rocks his head forward until his chin rests on Crowley’s shoulder. “You make it so, darling.” He tilts his head and presses a soft kiss to Crowley’s throat. He can feel the tension radiating from his lover and knows that his damned silly scars are the cause. “Don’t,” he whispers, offering another kiss, and another. “It was a long time ago.”

Crowley’s hand presses between his wings. “Should never have happened,” he says softly, but the rage whispers in his voice. “Not to you.” He pulled Aziraphale convulsively closer. “Never to you.”

Aziraphale nuzzles his throat, burying his face in now-loose tresses. “I think,” he sighs a little forlornly, “I spoiled your surprise.”

That makes Crowley step back. “Don’t even think it,” he growls. His hands catch Aziraphale’s face, their noses brushing against one another, as he breathes a sizzling promise, “I’m going to make you forget about _everything_ they made you do.”

Aziraphale’s urgent little “oh, please” is lost in the hungry kiss that ravishes his mouth, stealing his breath and leaving him reeling. Those lips move off his along his jaw, down his throat, marking any skin yet untouched. His hands move too, scorching paths of crackling power teasing his senses into an inferno.

“C-Crowley!” Aziraphale yelps when those sparking fingers come deliciously close to scorching, his body twitching demandingly into the demon’s touch.

“Do you have any idea?” Crowley growls hotly against his throat, “how good you are? Do you?” His nails rake down Aziraphale’s back, making his wings flare and his spine arch. “God, if I was half as good as you are!”

He’s so close that his bare legs are grazing Aziraphale’s, making Aziraphale’s already unsteady legs quiver even more. And oh, he notices and he can tell and he coils his leg around Aziraphale’s in a silent tango, wrapping around him so deliciously, skin to skin, and dragging so slowly up against him that Aziraphale almost lets go of the cords, almost grabs him, almost, almost, almost…

“So good,” Crowley gasps, hot as sulphur in his ear, his other hand sinking into Aziraphale’s hair and pulling so deliciously, dragging his head back, making his pant as teeth work down the front of his throat, biting and squeezing and stifling the air out of him until his legs are buckling. “So _perfect_.”

The world is swimming around him, but Aziraphale is happy to drown as Crowley whispers his praises, worshipping him from head to toe with kisses and bites and caresses. His hands are burning and arms ache, but oh, he will be good for the one who praises him so, who loves him so, who trusts him so.

Lips finds his again and he tilts his head to them, parting his lips, drinking in every shared breath.

“I’m here, love.” Crowley’s voice is soft as rain, his fingers touching Aziraphale’s arm. “I’m here. You can let go now.”

The cords slip free.

Aziraphale falls.

A demon catches him and lowers him gently to the floor.

He lies there, a puddle of thrumming nerves and shallow breaths. Soft skin is beneath his cheek and a hand in his hair and his wings are a crumpled blanket around them. The blindfold unravels from his eyes and he can see candle-lit, gold-tinted skin before him, pale legs and he touches, touches lightly, fingertips bruised and aching.

“All right?” Crowley asks softly some time later, his finger still combing through Aziraphale’s curls.

“Mm.” Aziraphale cannot stop running his fingers in slow circles around Crowley’s knee, only inches from his face. Every time, Crowley shivers and his hand twitches. It’s lovely. Quite lovely. Aziraphale tilts his head, just a little, and kisses the soft warm skin of Crowley’s inner thigh. Crowley jumps as if struck by lightning. Very nice, Aziraphale thinks. As nice as he hoped. He smiles happily. “Very.”

Crowley brushes his ear with a fingertip. “Good.” He leans down over Aziraphale, his arm slipping around him, under one wing, over the other. Copper hair covers them both like a veil. “I love you.”

Aziraphale leans into him, as much as his sated, boneless body will allow. “But,” he murmurs, “Next dance is my choice.”

Crowley bursts out laughing and kisses his ear. “I’ll look forward to it.”


End file.
